


ghost lives, ghost towns.

by insomniaks (effervescently)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, M/M, Sherlock AU, You might recognize characters from other fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effervescently/pseuds/insomniaks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock AU</p><p>John is an American soldier home from his last deployment. Sherlock is invited to a small American desert town plagued by a series of inexplicable crimes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. come with me

  
  
  
The sun was scorching and John's mouth was filled with sand. He blinked at the bright blue sky and the dry desert landscape surrounding him.  
  
He could barely remember last night. All he could recall was a desperate one-night stand on the hood of a blue Mustang. A flurry of blonde hair and smudged red lipstick. John vaguely recalled pulling up her denim mini-skirt, his hand slithering up her curvy thighs.  
  
Afterwards he was so drunk/exhausted he passed out in the middle of the desert. And she left him.  
There were still tire marks on the dusty trail.  
  
He stood up, groggily rubbing his eyes.  
  
He saw a building in the distance.  
  
It was a 15-minute walk (limp) to the building, which turned out to be a diner. In the middle of nowhere.  
  
There were several trucks and Mustangs parked outside and John wasn't surprised to see the diner almost completely full.  
  
There were a few free seats at the bar. He sat down on a leather stool and picked up the laminated menu. He was ravishingly hungry and the smells that filled the place weren't helping.  
  
He checked his pockets for left-over cash (he still had a fifty - yeah!)  
  
A tall, devastatingly handsome Asian man emerged from the kitchen. He was all smiles and flirting as he took other people's orders. He came up to John to take his order. His ears were glittering with sparkly earrings and piercings, though the rest of his clothes were understated.  
  
"What can I get you, sir?"  
  
Sir. Jesus. John probably seemed like an old man to this kid.  
  
"Oh, lets see. I'll have some coffee with extra sugar, and scrambled eggs. Okay?"  
"Coming right away,sir."  
"Thanks."  
  
The server winked at him and left to give customers' orders to the cooks.  
The guy was probably over 6'2'' and yet he was so friendly and flirty, he didn't tower over anyone.  
  
He reminded John of a friend from the army. He smiled as he remembered them goofing around on the plane home from their latest deployment in Afghanistan. John's last deployment. Early retirement because of injury.  
  
That was the reason for John's little celebration from last night.  It was his favorite thing.  
Come home, attend welcome home parties, hook up with random women. Forget every single one of them in the morning.  
  
John sighed inwardly. Happy memories.  
  
He had no idea what was waiting for him now.  
  
The server arrived with John's food.  
  
"Here you go, sir. Bon apetit!" All smiles again.  
  
A man almost as tall as the server came through the back entrance. That was their only similarity. He was as pale as if he'd never seen the sun and his eyes were bright blue orbs.  
  
His hands were filled with paperwork, but he waved to the server anyways.He went through silver kitchen doors.  
  
"Coming right over, Alec," the server shouted over the chatter in the diner. He wiped his hands on his apron and disappeared into the kitchen as well.  
  
John used that opportunity to sneak a $5 into his tip jar.  
  
Someone next to him snickered.  
  
John turned to his right to see a tall stranger looming over him with a smug face. A peculiarly structured smug face, that is.  
  
He had a halo of curly dark hair and a set of gray-blue-green-heavenly eyes. This man could probably see into his soul, read his mind. John didn't mind at all.  
  
"He does that with everyone."  
  
John didn't mind his voice either. The baritone had a velvet-like quality to it, and coupled with his accent it was a killer combination. John set his cup of coffee down.  
  
"I am aware. I did hear him serve like three other people before me."  
"Like three? I didn't realise I was speaking to a Valley girl." the stranger scoffed.  
  
"It's a figure of speech. Fuck off."  
"No, I won't. PTSD doesn't give you an excuse to be rude, you know."  
The guy turned to his newspapers.  
  
"PTSD. Okay. How the hell do you now I have it?"  
  
The server was back now. He refilled both their coffee cups. The stranger turned to him.  
  
"The owner fancies you. Ask him out."  
"Wouldn't that be inappropriate and unprofessional?"  
"It's never stopped you before."  
  
The server was flabbergasted. He scurried away, not before casting a look of disbelief in their general direction.  
  
"That's no way to talk to a friend."  
"He isn't my friend - I don't have any. I've never met the bloke before."  
  
"Then how did you- okay, back to the point. PTSD?"  
  
"You still have a tan, unusual even for an American living in the desert. So, you were abroad.  
You are built like a soldier, albeit a bit short. You have bags under your eyes - and no, not caused by your night out. Lack of sleep - nightmares. You also have a psychosomatic limp. Didn't anyone wonder why you limped when you were shot in your shoulder?"  
  
He took a sip of fresh coffee.  
  
"Fantastic."  
  
The guy almost choked on his drink.  
  
"What?"  
  
"That was amazing."  
  
"Really?"  
"Really."  
  
The man shook his hand.    
  
"Sherlock Holmes."  
"John Watson. It's a pleasure, Mr.. Holmes."  
"Call me Sherlock, please."  
  
"You have a strange name," John blurted out before he could stop himself.  
Sherlock laughed.  
  
"Oh yes. If my accent doesn't betray me, my name does."  
"It's very...uh, British."  
  
He smirked.  
  
"You should hear my brother's name. I've had so much fun teasing him."  
"Is he younger?"  
"Older. He has a minor position in the British government and loves to use it to torment me."  
"It's nice that he's successful, though. Unlike my sister."  
"Harry. Oh. I thought it was a brother."  
"How did you know my sister's named Harry?"  
"Your phone. You checked the time when you sat down."  
"Oh, the engraving. To Harry,from Clara."  
"Right."  
  
There was a short silence filled with the sounds of other beings in the room. John forgot they existed.  
  
"So what do you do, Sherlock?"  
"I'm a consulting detective. When the police finally admit to their incompetence, they invite me to solve their cases for them."  
  
"Sounds interesting."  
  
"Oh, it is. Endlessly. What are you planning now? I'm assuming you don't want actual retirement."  
  
"Of course not."  
  
John cringed at the thought of sitting in front of the TV, day after day after day.  
  
"I'm thinking of opening a private practice.If I don't pull it off, maybe I'll get a job in a hospital somewhere."  
  
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed for a split second. He beamed at John.  
  
"You were an army doctor."  
  
John nodded.  
  
"Come with me. I have a crime scene to analyse."  
  
"Really? What happened?"  
  
"Apparent double murder. Exciting."  
  
Sherlock smiled at John. He looked like a child told he's going to Disneyland.  
  
"Don't you think we should get going, then?"  
  
"Don't be silly, John. They're already dead. You might as well finish your coffee."  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

John kept his thoughts on the crunch of gravel as he followed Sherlock. There was only one vehicle in the parking lot - a large black SUV.  John bet it was scorching hot inside, as there was not a tree in sight.

  
"Is that yours?" John nodded towards the car.

"A rental, but yes. Don't worry about the heat, it won't be a long drive."

"Where are we going, then?"

He climbed into the SUV, hot air enveloping him. The leather seats were like molten lava.

  
Sherlock seemed unaffected. Like he was born in the desert, not England. _Who knows_ , John thought.

The SUV went smoothly over the mangled roads and paths, Sherlock steering with ease through the desolate environment.

Sherlock finally spoke after a mile or so.

"There was a couple murdered outside of town."

"That doesn't seem like a huge puzzle for the police."

"It wouldn't, normally. You see, the Wilsons were murdered at their farm 10 km outside the town - no road, no tire tracks beside those of their truck.

They weren't found for a week until Mrs Wilson's lover had a minor meltdown because she wasn't answering her phone. He called the police and...voila! Instant small town drama."

"The Wilsons? I went to high school with Mark Wilson."

"That's him. His wife is Anabelle, _née_ Davis."

"Oh, my God. I had a crush on her in 8th grade. Always knew they'd end up together." John smiled at memories that surfaced. He barely noticed that they had arrived at the WIlson farm.

"If you think you can't handle this, you don't have to do this."

"Sherlock." John said with faint disappointment. He looked at him with a "See, I'm fine" look.

"Alright," Sherlock agreed. He exited the SUV and John scrambled to follow.

The farm was a two-story brick house surrounded by low shrubbery and half dried rose bushes. Behind the house, a large yard spread out.

There was a small barn there. Its paint was faded by the desert sun and years of wear-and-tear but John suspected it was blue at some point.

John hadn’t noticed Sherlock was gone until he returned and blocked out the sun again. He wasn’t wearing that awful coat – instead he wore light blue scrubs. He had another set under his arm and handed those to John. They strolled to the back door of the house and crossed the yellow tape.

The room they entered was a charmingly Southern kitchen, complete with decorative copper cooking tools hanging above an island.

Sherlock barely glanced at it. He pointed John to a small utility room on the other end of the kitchen. “You can change in there, if you wish.”

John nodded, examining the rest of the kitchen as he went. The utility room was surprisingly cold, with its concrete walls and floor. John got goosebumps as he quickly shed his jeans and gingham-patterned shirt. He folded his clothes as best as he could and left them on the shelf where Sherlock had deposited his clothing earlier.

John wandered through the house until he reached the living room. It was lovely, with a large picture window and almost transparent white curtains. It’s a shame they were splattered in blood.

There were smudges of blood on the walls – even the flat screen TV had scarlet hand prints.

“The blood is Anabelle’s, if you are wondering.” Sherlock murmured. He was crouching near a glass coffee table, apparently studying the surface with a magnifying glass.

He stood up suddenly and fetched a folder that was lying on the sofa. John took it and leafed through the photographs.

The first one showed Anabelle Wilson lying on the floor just where Sherlock was crouching a moment ago. Her auburn hair was spread out around her head like a bronze halo. Her arms were spread wide, crusted with blood. She was wearing a dusty pink blouse – the garment was completely soaked in blood.

“She was stabbed 3 times.” Sherlock said behind his back, suddenly. John was startled.

“And the husband?”

“Same.” John flipped to the second photo, which showed Mark lying next to his wife in a pool of blood.

“Any indication of motive? Hatred? Small towns can be a boiling pot for conflict.”

Sherlock shook his head, dark curls bouncing around. “They were this town’s sweethearts - Mark was the coach of their local football team, Anabelle volunteered…”

Sherlock’s phone beeped. He raised his eyebrows and passed the phone over to John.

“The detective in charge of this case sent me their e-mails and texts from the last two months. Maybe you’ll find something interesting.”

John had just finished reading through them when they reached the highway.

“Nothing out of the ordinary –family, friends, neighbors, church committees…” John shrugged.

“Are you hungry?” Sherlock inquired.

“Starving. The heat’s killing me.”

Sherlock pulled over into the parking lot of a different diner. It was almost empty. They slid into a booth and John ordered a double serving of fries and a large soda, extra ice. Sherlock asked for a glass of water.

John passed the phone over to Sherlock. He read through the e-mails with a sort of detached, clinical interest.

“Aha, as I suspected.” Sherlock’s eyes lit up.

“What? Anything interesting, or even remotely useful?”

“The Wilsons were fans of infidelity. Both of them cheated multiple times, with multiple partners. No one offers help weeding a garden or teaching their son with a winky face.”

“Oh. Could it be a murder-suicide, then? One of them found out, overreacted?”

“No. They both knew and ignored it.” Sherlock put his head in his hands, thinking.

“Maybe one of them had an old enemy – I know for sure Mark was in the Army, he got a medical discharge - benign lung cancer from chemical weapons. He could have possibly made someone angry. It’s easy to make enemies in war-“

Sherlock’s phone interrupted John.

“Sherlock Holmes speaking…where?..yes?..we will be arriving shortly.”

He stood up suddenly. There was a look of excitement illuminating his face.

“There’s been another one, John.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to get a lot darker. Think Hannibal/True Detective.


End file.
